Rallying the Rangers
by Thalion Estel
Summary: When you're losing a baseball game in your own stadium near the end of a terrible season, it seems like nothing can possibly bring you out of your predicament. Well, what about hope? And who better to stir up this hope than one who has witnessed with his own eyes what hope can do? The Texas Rangers are in for the most astonishing game of their lives!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of Tolkien's characters or plots, nor do I have any rights to the Texas Rangers.**

**Author's Note: This story is mostly wishful thinking, I am afraid. However, it means a lot to me, and I would love some feedback, especially from you fellow baseball fans out there. I should be posting the remaining four chapters quickly since the regular season is finishing up and I want this to be out before baseball is over. Enjoy! Just so you know, I have written a lot of things in my life, but none that were as fulfilling as this, and none made me smile and laugh so many times as this.**

1

The Texas sky was now a dark blue except to the west, where it had traces of pink and gold from the setting sun. There were very few clouds, and the wind was gentle, hardly enough to raise the flags that hung on their poles high above the structure on which they stood. The air was, as it always in Texas during early September, hot and heavy.

Most of the fans in the Rangers' Ballpark were used to this temperature, and thus they did not grumble. The few loyal northerners who had travelled south for the baseball game fanned themselves with pamphlets and panted, sipping cold water from their cups. Their discomfort was eased somewhat by the current condition of the game.

While many Rangers' fans were huffing about their team's poor performance, one person sat in silence, watching the field below with keen and perceptive eyes. He was like a shadow in almost every sense of the word. His clothes were what the average American would call plain and strange. The person's dark hair was past his shoulders, and his expression was nearly impossible to read.

He sat without moving or cheering, almost as if he were asleep. This led the fans around him to assume that he was bored and without care. One spoiled child even had the nerve to call the person a freak, but this rude comment was met with a stare so cold that the boy's smirk turned into a gaping mouth of fear, and he quickly ran back to his mother. The person's shining eyes could cause anyone to back down, and a small brat was no exception.

The people seated near him were so young, the stranger mused. They were a mere breath: a vapor in the face of history. All the long years of their lives were a blink in his ancient eye. He smiled at the thought. If they knew how many ages he had seen, how many deaths he had witnessed, how many loved ones he had lost…

There was a crack as a bat hit the pitch it had been delivered and sent the ball sailing into the outfield. It was easily caught, and the torment was over for the Rangers' fans. The silent person in the stands wondered for a brief second why he liked baseball if it were so pointless. The only team he liked had endured a miserable season, and while in the Ballpark, all the strange person received from others were confused and suspicious looks. Why did he decide to come here?

_Because I like baseball,_ the person thought to himself with a small grin. _ It's most enjoyable to watch, and the Rangers are my team._ When he was first introduced to baseball, the Rangers had been the team to win the game he had watched, and that caused him to be a true fan. His loyalty to the team was surprisingly strong, especially since they were only a sports franchise. He supposed another reason he loved the Rangers was the casual and often teasing friendship between several of Texas' players. They reminded him of friends and brothers long gone. How he missed them.

_What would the Rangers' players think if they knew one of the Firstborn was rooting for them?_

The person felt pity smite his heart when he eyed the disappointed look on the pitcher's face as the team began to head for the dugout. The players all had defeat and despair in their eyes, and the person wished there were something he could do. Then, out of the blue, an absolutely insane idea entered his head. He tried to shove it out, but it fought his common sense with such ferocity that he could not continue the battle for long. He quietly and calmly rose from his place and walked down the stairs leading toward the foul ground and dugout.

. . .

The field was now emptying of players as the top of the seventh inning came to a close. Neal Cotts, one of the Texas Rangers' relieving pitchers, stomped into the dugout with the rest of his team members and threw down his hat in frustration. He sat down hard on the wooden bench next to the other pitchers and heaved a sigh of disappointment. Looking up at the scoreboard shamefully, he read its contents to himself in his head.

New York Yankees: 15. Texas Rangers: 1.

He had given up four of those runs. He had let his team down. Glancing at Robbie Ross, the starting pitcher, he read the same guilt and sadness in the man's eyes. Ross had given up the first seven runs, and then Mendez had relieved him only to give up four more. Last inning, Cotts had come in hoping to at least keep the game where it was, but he too had failed. Yet another game in this terrible season was going to be a horrific loss.

"It's alright, man," Cotts heard Jon Edwards, another reliever, say in encouragement. He seated himself beside Cotts and put a hand on his shoulder. "It's not your fault: the Yanks are just good hitters."

Cotts nodded, though he did not agree with the recently called up rookie. Edwards saw this, but he decided not press to the matter. The team's spirit was all but broken now, and even Andrus, the Rangers' most giddy shortstop, could hardly have caused someone to laugh. This whole season had been awful, and with a record of 53 wins and 86 losses, they were in the basement of all of baseball. This was enough shame in itself, but being crushed at home made the burden almost too much to bear.

A loud voice came over the intercom and requested that everyone participate in singing _God Bless America_. Cotts stood reluctantly, but Edwards was more than willing. He had always considered the song a prayer, and he thought about the words as he sang. It was a truly wonderful song, even in a time like this.

A movement to the right of the dugout caught Edward's eye as the song drew to a close. Someone leapt gracefully over the railing and onto the field, landing with more skill than a cat. The person walked nonchalantly to the dugout, and Edwards looked around at his fellow players to see if they'd noticed. What in the world was this crazy fan doing?

Several other Rangers saw the man and stared. Ron Washington, the team manager, soon spotted the intruder and gave a surprised yell.

"Hey! Who are you? What are you doing on the field?" The manager's frustration and strain from the game were easily seen in his tone, though he tried to be as polite as possible. He glanced around for the security guards who should have been keeping such admirers in the stands.

"May I have a brief word with the team?" the stranger asked.

The person moved closer, and for the first time, Ron got a look at the strange fan. He almost gasped, for the face was unlike any he had ever seen before. Adjectives like sad, fair, and noble came to his mind quickly, and just the look from the person's shining eyes made him hesitate to refuse. The security guards finally showed up, but Washington waved them down. What could the person say that would be bad anyway?

"We are in the middle of a game," Ron said.

"I will be brief," the person insisted. "Please."

The tone used in saying the word 'please' ended whatever war was going on in Ron's mind. Washington nodded reluctantly, unable to believe how easily he had just let a complete stranger into his professional baseball dugout. What was he thinking? Yet, at the same time, how could he deny such a strange request, and from this person no less?

The person grinned politely in thanks and made his way to the stairs and down into the dugout. Several general exclamations and questions were quietly voiced at the intrusion, but Ron told the players to be quiet. When the Rangers looked into their guest's eyes, their questions were silenced, and they listened eagerly to hear what he had come to say.

**I have a few important things to say. First off, every single detail in this story is accurate for early September, 2014. Every player played the same position and is in the lineup just as I have written, every stat that is given in future chapters is true, and the wins and losses number is correct (for early September). The game itself is fictitious, but it could have happened exactly like this in real life, minus our unknown guest. Second, I chose the Yankees randomly as the opponent of my Texas Rangers. I know nothing about them, and I will not list any of their names or stats. Don't take it personally if they are not portrayed as kindly as the Rangers: I live in a baseball fantasy where the Rangers' players are all more awesome than everyone else, and I like it. **** If my fantasy doesn't match your fantasy, don't get mad: it's all a fantasy, unless you know the players personally.**

**I would also like to go ahead and say that lots of the players on the Rangers team have accent marks over several letters in their names, but their jerseys don't have these, so I'm not going to write them that way. The only name I need to mention this for specifically is Martin, which is pronounced "Mar-teen", not "Mar-tin".**

**Just as an aside to this really long author's note, I wrote this when the Rangers were doing about as badly as possible. They had won two games in a row only once or twice in three months. After I finished this story, they exploded, and as of today, they've won twelve of fourteen and snagged the last four series, three of those being sweeps. So, I penned this when hope was almost, but I am posting it while the Rangers are doing well. That may bring in some perspective: I don't know.**

**I hope y'all like this: please review, and maybe if you're not a big baseball fan, pass this on to some who is! If you happen to know any players for the Rangers team, I implore you to get this to them immediately: I wrote it for them!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Here's another chapter! Some action this time. The season didn't end all that well for the Rangers, but taking a step back, they won 13 of their last 16. I hope y'all enjoy this update. Don't forget to review!**

2

"What could be going on down there?" one of the radio announcers asked.

"I have no idea," the second commentator said. "My only guess is a crazed fan or something."

"Now _that_ is a desperate attempt for an autograph," the first announcer laughed. "Where the heck is security?"

"Washington's waving 'em off. Listen folks, if you're just joining us, we are watching as an interesting scene develops on the field. A random fan has jumped onto the field and gone into the Ranger's dugout. We have no clue who he is or what he's doing, but Ron doesn't seem to have a problem with it."

"Not at all. This is really strange. I hope his business doesn't take too long, because we've got a game to play!"

"Maybe Ron's called up yet another pitcher from the minors. What would that make? Five thousand this season?"

"I am sure that—"

Adrian Beltre flipped off the radio that sat in the corner of the dugout and focused his full attention on the stranger. The figure was so unlike anyone the team had ever seen, and they all waited anxiously for him to do something.

"You have defeat in your hearts," the stranger said in a deep, sober, almost musical voice. "That is logical: you are likely to lose this game, as you have lost so many others. You play and speak now as if you are certain to fail today. This is probably true. Yet will you simply accept defeat, or will you not fight until there is no strength left in you? Is hope truly gone? It seems so, but do you not know that day shall come again?

"In battle long ago, when the greatest host of the Free Peoples was assembled, there was a warrior named Húrin Thalion, which means 'steadfast'. Though the battle was at one time near victory, treachery dashed the hopes of all, and many great heroes fell. When the Free Peoples were completely routed, the men of Húrin held their ground so that others might escape. Slowly, the men's numbers waned as evil continued to pour forth on them like water from a rushing river.

"Last of all, Húrin stood alone. Then he cast aside his shield and wielded an axe two-handed; and it is sung that the axe smoked in the black blood of the troll-guard of Gothmog, a great demon of ancient days, until it withered. And each time that he slew, Húrin cried _'Aurë entuluva_! Day shall come again!' Seventy times he uttered that cry; though they took him at last alive."

The dugout was completely silent. Everyone was immersed in this story, this effect being especially due to the stranger's superb ability to captivate his audience with his words and voice. Something about the way he spoke was compelling, and no one stirred as the person paused.

"You are the Texas Rangers," he continued. "Prove yourselves as steadfast as Húrin today! Do you believe that day really shall come again? Do you believe it?" There was a corporate nod. "Then go to battle and prove it! You are not pitted against an unbeatable foe: the One may shine upon you yet. Do not disgrace yourselves with utter despair! Day will come again, be it today or next year. Fight for that light, for that hope! Show the Yankees, as well as everyone here, that if this game ends in another loss, you will make such an end as to be worthy of remembrance!"

The entire dugout exploded in a shout of defiance. No one was going to waltz into the Rangers' Ballpark and take a win without a fight. No one.

The Umpires were now walking over to the dugout, seemingly confused and frustrated by the short delay. Ron Washington rushed out to meet them and explain that everything was fine and they were ready to resume the game. The batters got into their appropriate order, and to the stranger's surprise, he was offered a seat beside the players who could not play on account of their injuries.

"We now go into the bottom of the seventh," the commentator's voice echoed through the dugout from the radio that had been turned back on. "The Rangers are starting at the top of their order with Daniel Robertson. He is 0 for 3 so far tonight."

As the announcer had said, Daniel Robertson was now up to bat. He grabbed up his bat as a soldier does his sword and marched resolutely out to the plate. He cast a brief glance to the dugout where the stranger sat. Near the guest was the injured Shin-soo Choo, in whose place Robertson was batting.

"For Choo's sake, and for the Rangers'," Robertson mumbled through clenched teeth.

The first pitch flew by at just less than a hundred miles an hour, and Robertson swung for the fences.

"Strike one!"

Robertson reset his feet and looked defiantly at the pitcher. The curve ball had evaded him, and the pitcher was quite glad. The man was almost smirking with glee, and this only fueled Robertson's energy even more.

The second pitch had no chance of getting into the catcher's glove, and the cheering in the dugout almost drowned out the report of the radio commentators.

"There's a line drive down the right side, hard hit, going way back is the right fielder, and he won't get there in time! Robertson has touched first and is heading for second. He will easily beat the throw, and the Rangers now have a man on second with no outs! Robertson had picked up a double: the Ranger's fourth hit of the night. Next up is Andrus, who has the only RBI of the game for Texas."

Elvis Andrus, the shortstop, made his way from the on-deck circle toward the plate. He patted his bat on the toes of his shoes and then got into his batting position, looking toward the pitcher with resolve. The first pitch was low and outside for a ball, and the second was hit foul down the right side. Andrus shook out thoughts of doubt and faced his foe again.

"Day shall come again," he whispered.

The next pitch was slightly out of the strike zone, but Andrus swung anyway and made contact. The ball shot between the pitcher's legs and down the middle of the field, rolling into center. Robertson sprinted around third and slid into home as Andrus watched from first base.

The umpire indicated that the runner was safe, and shouts of joy erupted from both the dugout and the stands. Robertson ran into the dugout and received high-fives and pats on the back from just about everyone. It was only one run, but it was a run.

It was now Alex Rios' turn to bat. He walked up to the plate, swinging the bat a few times to loosen his muscles. Each swing hurt his minor injuries, but he ignored the pain as best he could.

He was soon behind in the count 1-2, but he, like Andrus, did not let that faze him. Then, with as much force as he could, Rios swung at the next pitch with all his might. His swing was a little early, but the force of the hit sent what would have been a groundout past the infielders and into the outfield. Andrus made it to third.

"And the Rangers have managed another hit!" the commentator proclaimed, unable to mask a little excitement. "Now they've got men on the corners, zero outs, and Adrian Beltre coming up to bat."

Despite the condition of the game, Beltre got a rousing cheer from the stands. His average was one of the highest in all of baseball, and he always had the respect and admiration of fans and team members alike. In addition to his skill, he was similar to Andrus in that he enjoyed a good tease every now and then. Baseball wasn't just a job to him: it was a fun game that he played with friends. He had several ongoing jokes with Andrus, since as the third basemen, he was always near the shortstop. Their comedy was a favorite among all true fans, including the stranger.

Beltre had several minutes to warm up as the Yankees' pitching coach and catcher jogged out to the mound to talk with the struggling pitcher. When the short conference was over, everyone returned to their place, and the first pitch flew toward the plate.

"That pitch is in there for a strike," one of the radio announcers reported, his voice easily heard in the quiet and tense dugout.

"That was a very good sinker down the middle," the other observed. "It always looks like it will be too high."

"And here's the windup, and the pitch: Beltre hammers the ball to left field! Going way back after the ball is the left fielder…it's still going…goodbye! Beltre hits a 3-run homer, and that will do it for the Yankees' starting pitcher!"

Nothing more could be heard of the radio, for the dugout was totally immersed in yells and cheers. The runners came in one by one, each receiving much encouragement and praise. Andrus sneaked back to Beltre and rubbed the slugger's head according to tradition, drawing a playful slap from Beltre and a laugh from everyone else.

"_Aurë entuluva_!" a few players cried. Several others took up the shout, and soon the dugout was echoing with it. "_Aurë entuluva_! _Aurë entuluva_!"

The stranger did not shout with them, being a very composed sort of person, though he grinned widely and felt a surge in his veins which had not been there in many long years. Hope was kindled and burning fiercely.

**Don't forget to review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Chapter three! This one fulfills something I had always wanted to happen, and I hope y'all like it. Please review!**

3

The game was now 15-5, which was still heavily in the Yankees favor. With a new pitcher in the game, New York was able to get out of the difficult seventh inning, though the Rangers refused to strike out. After Beltre's homer, J. P. Arencibia drew a walk, but unfortunately Martin grounded into a double play a few pitches later. When Rosales came up, he flied out into deep right field, only about ten feet from a home run. The Yankees were heartened by three outs in a row, but the Rangers lost none of their desire to fight.

Edwards, who had been warming up in the bullpen, walked to the mound to start the eighth inning. He was nervous as he thought about how the night had gone for Texas' pitchers, but when he looked to the dugout and saw the stranger there, he held to hope. Something in the person's eyes made his resolve harden. Being a devout Christian, Edwards breathed a silent prayer as he fingered the baseball.

_Lord, may Your will be done through me. Don't let me lose hope._

Edwards looked around to make sure his fellow teammates were in position. Rosales was manning the bag at first, Odor was a few yards off second, and Beltre and Andrus were arguing and laughing between second and third. The outfielders had reached their positions. Chirinos squatted behind home plate, the Yankees' first batter standing near him. It was time.

The dugout was quiet as Edwards delivered his first pitch, which was a little too high for ball 1. Now that things had toned down, the stranger was receiving a little more attention from the players and the manager. Though most people were watching the game, they stole glances toward their guest at every opportunity. Washington, being curious and not terribly occupied, took a few seconds of his time and walked over to the stranger.

"What you said was very inspiring. Thank you for helping the guys find their feet again."

The stranger dipped his head modestly, and Ron found that he could not ask the questions he wanted to. Instead of stuttering, he decided to remain silent, but he offered his hand, which the stranger took and shook firmly, smiling a little. The grin was so…noble. It was difficult for Washington to describe, so he left things as they were and returned to his seat just in time to see Edwards strike out his first opponent.

The whole dugout cheered, and Edwards felt warm relief wash over him. The next batter proved more difficult to subdue, but after nine pitches, the Yank popped into foul ground, and Beltre caught the ball for the second out. The next batter hit a ball hard toward the shortstop, but Andrus managed a quick grab, flinging it to first as fast as he could. The runner was out by a mere foot, and the one-two-three inning ended.

Edwards was congratulated over and over again as he came back to the dugout. The stranger even bowed his head in respect, which Edwards took as a high honor. When the excitement settled down, Robinson Chirinos, the team's catcher, picked up his bat and headed for the plate.

Chirinos, to his dismay, hit a ground ball to the third basemen. However, he was able to make the pitcher spend eleven pitches in his at-bat, and the other players assured him that this would help his team in the future.

Next up was the explosive rookie, Rougned Odor. He had his teeth set when he walked up to the plate, images of the man named Húrin from the stranger's tale flying through his head. He imagined his bat to be the axe, and the ball a troll. He smiled to himself, thinking of how silly it was to be doing this in the middle of a game.

The next pitch was right down the middle, and Odor hit the troll square between the eyes. The ball flew off into the left field corner, and the fielder almost lost it beneath the padding of the walls. Odor made it all the way to third base, and the dugout erupted in another glad cheer.

"_Aurë entuluva_!" Edwards shouted, smiling toward the stranger.

The Rangers were now at the top of their order again. Robertson stepped up to the plate, squeezing the bat in his fingers tightly. He let a ball and a strike go by before making contact with a pitch. It sailed into right field and was caught for a second out, but Odor ran home and scored.

"_Aurë entuluva_!" the call rang out from the dugout. "_Aurë entuluva_!"

Andrus was next, and he hit a single to right. The fans seemed to stay on their feet now, both surprised and pleased by the change in the Ranger's offense. Rios was next, and he drew a walk. The Yankees' pitcher was changed. On his first pitch, Beltre hit an infield single, loading the bases. Calls of encouragement never ceased to echo from the dugout, along with the occasional cry of "_Aurë entuluva_!"

Arencibia was now up to bat. His teammates cheered him on loudly as he came up to the plate. The stranger listened to the radio announcers as they talked about the batter and his record.

"Arencibia, to you fans who are hoping, does in fact have a grand slam this season. That was against the Yankees in late July, and even with those four runs, the Rangers could not climb out of a big run deficit to win that game. I'm sure they're hoping for a similar come back with a win attached this evening, but being down 15-6 in the eighth, it does not look promising, even with all their recent hits."

Arencibia quickly got down in the count with two balls hit foul. He stomped into his stance a third time, seeing his fellow Rangers on each of the bases in his peripheral vison. The stranger's bright eyes filled Arencibia's mind, and he whispered the hopeful phrase quietly to himself.

"_Aurë entuluva_."

The next pitch, a fast ball down the middle, was perfect to hit, and Arencibia did not waste the opportunity. He swung his bat around with all the force he could muster, and his effort was not in vain.

"Arencibia shoots this one hard to center," the radio announcer said enthusiastically. "That ball is history! Arencibia earns himself another grand slam, putting the Rangers in the much more reasonable situation of 15-10. What a hit!"

"Man, that ball had a motor on it!" the second commentator marveled. "That was _way_ out of here."

The radio suddenly collapsed off the bench in the dugout and hit the floor. The ecstatic jumping and celebrating had caused it to fall, but no one really cared. The team was almost beyond calming, and everyone was laughing, shouting, and moving to applaud those who had scored. The Yankees stood on the field aghast, and even with their five run lead, their confidence wavered. The pitcher had his mouth gaping open, staring in disbelief at the stands where the homer had landed.

When the game resumed, Martin came to the plate. He battled with the pitcher for six pitches before hitting a double to left field. That ended the pitcher's night, bringing in another reliever. This fresh Yankee walked Rosales and hit Chirinos with a pitch, but then he managed to strike out Odor. Even though the inning was over, the damage had been done, both to the score board and to New York's morale.

"Texas strands three runners," the radio announcer stated from the machine that had been picked up and placed back on the bench, "but the Rangers gained five runs, and you can tell by their manner that they intend to get some more."

**Yes, poor Arencibia had a grand slam in July that was wasted in the most depressing almost-comeback ever. I watched that game, and let me tell you, it was miserable. SOOOOO close. I think it was something like 10 to 2, Rangers losing, at one point. It ended up 12 to 11 Yankees, bases loaded, bottom of the ninth, two outs, and a full count on Beltre of all people. Fly out. It was incredibly hard, I accidently wrote an essay immediately afterwards about perishable glory and imperishable glory to settle myself. All that to say Arencibia deserved another grand slam. Please, please, please review!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Chapter four. This one is pretty exciting, and I hope y'all enjoy it. Please don't forget to review!**

4

Neftali Feliz was called to pitch the top of the ninth. The team wished him good luck as they took the field, trying to lessen his anxiety. Now that the situation was getting close, Feliz felt burdened, but like so many others, he found comfort in the stranger's words and in his teammates' assurances.

The first Yankee flied out to left field on his third pitch. The next, however, managed to send one of Feliz's fastballs shooting through into the outfield, singling. The Yankees were glad of this development, shouting from their dugout some encouragement to their player and some unkind things to Feliz. Chirinos trotted up to the mound.

"Don't worry, Feliz. Don't listen to them," Chirinos said. "You've still got this. Remember: _aurë entuluva_."

Feliz nodded and Chirinos returned to home plate. Taking in a deep breath, Feliz prepared to face his next opponent. The Yankee walked haughtily to bat, sneering at Feliz. The Yankees had definitely rediscovered their confidence, but Feliz chose to ignore it.

The first pitch was hit hard to deep right, but Rios sprinted toward it and made the catch. The Yankee on first advanced to second, and there were now two outs. Feliz felt a little of his nervousness disappear. He just had to deal with one more batter. He dealt two strikes and two balls, and then on a wild pitch, the runner stole third.

Chirinos did not move from his place, but he sent Feliz a reassuring glance and mouthed the night's favorite phrase: _aurë entuluva_. Feliz nodded and selected a pitch. Then, holding on to hope, he threw the ball. The Yankee swung for the fences, but the curveball eluded him, and he didn't even get a piece of it.

The Ranger dugout was, for what felt like the hundredth time this night, jumping up and down with glee. Feliz gave a big sigh of relief and headed off the field, a grin splitting his face. He was swarmed by his teammates, and nearly smothered with all the hugs, pats, and handshakes.

To start the bottom of the ninth inning, Robertson came to the plate. The stands were quiet now, and tension was in the air. Could any team really come back from a 15-1 score in just three innings? It seemed implausible, but already nine runs had been made up. What were five more?

"A lot," the radio announcer pessimistically reminded. "Five runs is a lot."

"But they've gotten far more than that in an inning before," the other retorted. "They scored sixteen in one inning once back in 1996 against Baltimore."

The stranger was surprised by that detail, which he caught amid the loud excitement. He had not been following baseball at that time, and he wondered what it must have been like to watch a team score so many runs in just one inning. Of course, what he was watching now could be the makings of the best comeback in history. He hoped that it would be.

Why he desired the win so badly, he did not know for sure. All he was certain of was that he was loyal to the Rangers, and thus he wanted them to have the victory. Images of his own battles came to mind, though they only filled him with pain. So much death, so much suffering, so much labor in vain. His eyes grew slightly moist as he again felt the inner anguish of all those ages of sorrow and loss. Hope suddenly surged again in his blood as he heard Robertson's bat make contact with a pitch. Maybe, just maybe, this time his men would _win_.

Robertson was on second when the stranger pulled himself from his thoughts. The dugout exploded _again_, and Andrus wasted no time in hustling to the plate, hoping to add to the Rangers' score. It being the bottom of the ninth, the dugout held nothing back.

"_Aurë entuluva_! _Aurë entuluva_!" The cry came repeatedly, and Andrus felt like everyone had his back. He smiled to himself, even managing a chuckle. This game was certainly taking an interesting turn, and even if they lost, no one would forget the last couple of innings. And still, there was hope of victory.

"_Aurë entuluva_," he said.

"What?" the Yankee catcher asked.

Andrus did not answer since the pitcher was winding up. The first pitch was hit foul, and the second was just barely inside for a ball. Then Andrus finally got a pitch he could hit, and he sent the ball bouncing past the second basemen and into center field. Robertson held nothing back as he rounded third and headed for home. He slid in only a second before the ball reached the plate, but he was safe. One down, four to go. A tie was within reach.

Next up was Rios. The first pitch he received was hit down the left field line into the corner. Andrus scored, and Rios got to second. The team shouted enthusiastically from the dugout as the Yankees replaced their pitcher. The stranger felt himself ache as his hope became more and more of a reality. They would still probably lose, but what if…?

Considering Beltre's batting average and the fact that a double play could ensue with a man on first, the pitcher intentionally walked Beltre, putting men on first and second. He continued to keep the Rangers' bats quiet when he delivered a slick strikeout to Arencibia. A double play now would end the game. Martin walked up to the plate with the fear of this in mind, but he tried to keep it from bothering him. The dugout still shouted for him, and he let the hope echo in his mind over and over.

_Aurë entuluva_. _Aurë entuluva_.

Strike one. Ball one. Strike two. Ball two. Foul. Foul. Foul. The at-bat dragged on. Then, finally, Martin smacked the ball way out into right field. It bounced off the wall, and the fielder had to scramble around for a few seconds before locating it and making the throw. Beltre scored, and Rios soon followed. Martin slid into third, having a 2 RBI triple under his belt. The crowds went insane, as did the Texas dugout. A Yankees pitcher soberly exited New York's dugout and began warming up in the bull pen, as it appeared the game might go into extra innings. The Rangers were now only one run down, and Rosales went proudly out to the plate.

Instead of getting a hit, as he would have liked, he drew a walk, putting men on the corners. Next up was Chirinos. He had a long at-bat, and eventually he flied out to center. When the ball was caught, Martin tagged the base and tore for home, just beating the throw. The game was tied.

Screams filled the air from everyone. The Rangers shouted in indescribable ecstasy, the fans cheered with surprised joy, and the Yankees yelled in protest to the outcome of the past two and a half innings. The radio announcers, who could not have been heard anyway, were at a loss for words.

It was difficult to calm the Ballpark down, but finally the game resumed, and for the first time, the Rangers were going for a win. They had one man on first and two outs, but their momentum was so high that they hoped for more runs. Odor was now up, and he fully intended to keep the inning alive.

He succeeded. On a 1-1 pitch, he hit a single to left field, sending Rosales to third. A new pitcher entered the game as the Rangers returned to the top of their order. Robertson took his stance and awaited the pitch. Surprisingly, he was walked in only five pitches. With the bases loaded, Elvis Andrus came up to bat.

**They really did score 16 runs in one inning once. It must have been amazing! I hope this chapter was to your liking. Please leave me a review! The next chapter will be the last, and the stranger's identity will be revealed.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: The end has come! I hope you like it, and please remember to review!**

5

Every fist and jaw in the dugout was clenched. They could not cry out encouragement now. It was too tense. Even the stranger was anxious, an emotion he seldom allowed. He let his bright eyes linger on Andrus as the shortstop patted the plate and raised his bat. He noticed that the stands had gone silent, and the radio commentators were not going back and forth with small talk as usual. Everyone watched to see if the impossible could really be done.

Strike one. There was a collective gasp, but no more. Andrus winced, but his eyes remained adamant, and he prepared for another pitch, which was a little high. The count was even, but the pressure did not ease. Edwards had his hands clasped together, and he could not help but pray in his head.

_Lord, please. I beg You, please give us this game. If it is Your will to humble us, so be it. Help us accept it. But Lord, _please_ let us win. Show Your glory through us. Please._

The next pitch was another ball, and still the anxiety remained. A strike followed, accompanied by the same kind of gasp as before. A third ball was thrown, and the count was full. Everyone in the entire Ballpark was on his feet, though the crowds remained silent. Andrus called for time and stood back from the plate to catch his breath. The stranger, seeing a last opportunity, stepped a little bit forward.

"_Aurë entuluva_!" he shouted to Andrus.

His voice was reassuring in itself, and Andrus looked over at the dugout and smiled. The call rang out and was easily heard by everyone within a hundred yards. Those words, spoken by someone who knew both the language they came from and the instance in which they were first said, caused most hearts to stir. Hope was an almost physical feeling now in every Rangers' fan.

Andrus returned to his stance and awaited the next pitch, still grinning from the stranger's encouraging shout. Time seemed to slow as the pitcher glanced at the bases and then wound up. The man let loose his pitch, and the ball flew toward Andrus and his eager bat.

The contact of the ball hitting the bat seemed louder than a gunshot. The hit was a line drive down the ride side, just about a foot left of the foul line and barely over the first basemen's head. It landed fair in right field, and Rosales made for home like a train. No throw came to home, and the Rangers had won on a walk-off single.

There was no hearing any particular sentence for the next several minutes. No one was still either, except perhaps the Yankees players, who stood around with their mouths open in disbelief. The Ranger dugout emptied onto the field to meet Rosales when he had touched home plate. The team was jumping up and down in a circle around the poor Rosales, patting and hugging him excessively, and when he finally emerged from pile, his shirt was torn apart. This had happened to him on several other occasions during the season, and he simply smiled and celebrated with the rest.

The only one not running around and screaming was the stranger. He simply stood, just outside the dugout, looking over the field. He smiled freely, his eyes surprisingly misted with tears of joy, though he did not allow these to fall. The moment was just wonderful. The stranger felt the kind of happiness one feels when he comes home for the holidays, or when he completes a great feat and looks over his work. It was a simple, yet totally innocent and pure joy.

The Rangers were near the end of a losing season. They had lost many games, they had lost many players, and even this three-game series with the Yankees had been lost. But they had won tonight, and right now, that was all that mattered.

"_Utúlie'n aurë_," the stranger whispered. "The day has come."

After several minutes of rejoicing, the stranger turned and began to walk away from the field. However, he had not gone far when a friendly hand was laid on his shoulder. He turned around to see Ron Washington standing behind him, looking at him with humble curiosity.

"We owe our win to you," Ron said.

The stranger shook his head. "I'm just a loyal fan: they're the team."

Ron also shook his head. "You reminded them of hope, something we had almost lost. I can't express how grateful I am to you."

"You needn't. It is reward enough to me that they gained this victory."

Reporters were trying to swarm Washington, but he waved them off, still desiring to speak with the stranger.

"Who are you?" the manager finally asked.

The stranger was silent for a moment, but he soon realized that he should answer. He took in a breath and simply stated his name.

"Maglor."

It was clear that Washington had never heard this name, but Maglor was not surprised. Ron again offered Maglor his hand, which the elf took gladly and shook. Just when the Noldo thought he would now be heading out, Andrus ran over to him, grinning from ear to ear.

"Hey, man. Thanks for the hope."

Then, in a gesture that caught Maglor completely off guard, the young man wrapped the elf in a tight hug. Maglor was not sure why the man would embrace a complete stranger, but it did not feel bad. In fact, it seemed like an honor.

Maglor was still not able to leave. Beltre was next, issuing a firm handshake and giving his thanks. Edwards also came forward to meet the elf, and it snowballed from there. Maglor found himself greeting most of the team and receiving kindness that other fans would kill for. He was offered season tickets, jerseys, and autographs a dozen times, and some even asked him to visit the dugout again. All the attention made Maglor, who had not been revered in literally ages, at last feel noble again. It was a good feeling.

The Ballpark slowly emptied, but Maglor remained in the shadows until he thought everyone was gone. When the field and stands were vacant, Maglor stood alone at home plate, gazing out over the battle field where hope had won the day. Hope in the coming light would always win in the end, the elf knew. However, he felt blessed that it had come to his team today.

"It's such a good feeling," Edwards said.

Maglor spun around, amazed that he had let his guard down so much as to miss the appearance of the reliever. The pitcher walked up to home plate and looked into center field, giving a sigh of contentment. His hand held a glove, which Maglor assumed the man had forgotten earlier, hence his unexpected appearance.

"Hope is a powerful thing," Maglor said at last.

"Because God is its source," Jon reminded. "He is the foundation of all true hope." Somehow he knew that Maglor was familiar with this truth, but he felt the need to say it anyway. One could never go amiss giving glory to God.

"'Through Him we have also obtained access by faith into this grace in which we stand, and we rejoice in hope of the glory of God,'" Edwards quoted. "'More than that, we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.'"

"Hope does not put us to shame," Maglor repeated. "Day _shall_ come again."

"_Aurë entuluva_," the pitcher said slowly. "_Aurë entuluva_."

**So, there you have it. I am fulfilled, at least in regards to baseball. This was an absolute joy to write, and I hope you have enjoyed it at least half as much as I have. If so, you probably smiled quite often. **** I don't believe this story needs to be fiction in nature, though. Sure, Maglor isn't real, but hope is, and it is truly powerful, provided it has the right foundation. So, next time things aren't going well, remember: **_**aurë entuluva**_**. This applies to everything, from losing a game to losing a loved one. Day shall come again, because ultimately, He shall come again. Thanks for reading! Please leave me a review and check out my other stories!**

**P.S. You are now required to scream "Aurë entuluva!" at all sports events in support of your team. Spread the hope!**

**P.P.S. If you want an example of the danger of false hope, let me know: I just wrote an essay on the death of such false hope in Western society during the 1900s, and I think it's pretty good, if I do say so myself. **** I am willing to send it to anyone who wants to read it.**


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